I have been attacked by a bug I’ve been running away from. It has come at me with the force of a tornado ready to strike me off the surface of the ground. It wants to swirl me into a world of physical insecurity. It’s a bug I didn’t want to come close to. I didn’t want to know its name, didn’t want to hear about it, didn’t want to see it. I steered clear of its way. We were parallel for many years. I liked it that way. That’s how I wanted it to stay. But it had other plans.
The thought of it strikes my soul with fear. It elicits an influx of adrenaline in my system. I want to fight and take the exit afterwards.
I hid from it behind my couch. Whenever I’d hear its name, I’d place my hands over my ears. I’d close my eyes and sail the way Boy and Girl did in Black Box. I didn’t want to see it. I have never wanted to deal with. It creeps me out, runs shivers down my spine and leaves me anxious.
But it has crept into my life like a fat, pus-looking, nausea-causing maggot. And I’m scared. I’ve got to do something about it. I’ve got to nip it in the bud before it becomes a full-blown case of an attack to my body.
What else did I expect anyway? When all I did was eat, get on the tram to work, sit at my desk, get back home, eat some more and sleep. How was my body supposed to process all that food, all those calories? How did I expect my excretory system to react to all the chocolate and cookies? It had an overload.
Truth is, I’m sad. My belly is taking a shape I don’t want it to. Pot-belly. Eeew! I don’t want to think about it. Aaarrrrrggghhhh. I would’ve screamed, “I want my mummy” but I’m six times older than a five-year-old so I can’t call pull that move. That’ll be insane.
I looked at my nude body in the mirror on Monday evening and felt a sense of shame. My tummy has grown. It is storing lipids I didn’t ask it to. That was not our agreement. It wasn’t what I signed up for when I calligraphed my signature on that line of my contract. When I applied for my visa at the embassy to come to this country, growing a belly that took the shape of bowl on its side was not part of the deal. Now, the prospect of having firm abs – not a six pack but firm abs – has gone to peck nuts with free range chickens on the compound.
I took a picture of my tummy. I needed a clearer look. Probably the mirror was lying to me. I imagined it was a case of misunderstanding between my eyes and the skin that covers my abdomen. It was there, a belly looking like a balloon still being blown.
“Maybe my colon is holding in lots of waste after the digestion process took place,” I thought to myself. So I sat on the toilet, took a dump for 20 mins, then stood in front of that mirror again hoping there would be a change. There was no difference.
“Why me, God? Why?”
I sat on my bed and held the skin of my tummy between my fingers. They felt smooth like a deflated rubber ball. This fat invasion all over my front sent my muscles into hiding. My eyes got drippy. Because the bug I’ve been running away from seems to have caught up with me.
I’ve got to fight it. I’ve got to do whatever I need to to get myself back in shape. Russian Twists, abdominal crunches, planks, leg raises and whatever else will help me fix this, I will do. I have activated my 28-day emergency program that I thought about two years ago in case I ever found myself in this uncomfortable bowel situation. It’s time to implement it.
A rolling tummy is not for me.